


Assemblage

by Shabby Abby (KJPearl)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: 15 Days of FatT 2018, Apocalypse, Awkward Crush, Crushes, Cuddle Pile, Cultivate Saplings, Day At The Beach, Domestic Fluff, Driving, Engagement, F/F, Fatherhood, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Heat and the Dark, Insomnia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Nostalgia, Self-Doubt, Stargazing, Time Loop, Travel, Unhealthy Relationships, Yellow House, piloting, pre-Lem/Fero, vlogging - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13681299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJPearl/pseuds/Shabby%20Abby
Summary: Short fics for 15 Days of FatT.11. Divine Intervention: Fero12. Time is Long: Jace/Addax13. Regret: Arrell/Alyosha14. Saplings: Lem & Fero15. Family: Samol





	1. Dance: Tower/Mako

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know that I'll end up writing all 15, but I'll give it a shot.

They were sitting next to each other on Mako’s bed, the only available space in his tiny dorm.

“You’ve never?” Tower asked.

“No,” Mako blushed.

“Well, it’s easy.”

Make sat, uncharacteristically silent, refusing to look at Tower.

“No, really. I’ll teach you,” Tower stood from Mako's bed, his long limbs unfolding as he rose. He was so tall, Mako had always noticed, unfairly tall. Tower offered Mako a hand. 

"Will you give me the honor of a dance, Mr. Trig?”

Mako giggled, “Well if you ask so nicely, Mr. Chalet, how could I say no?”

Tower pulled Mako up slowly, drawing him close and placing one hand around his waist, the other holding Mako’s own. Mako had to look up to meet his eyes, damn Tower's growth spurt.

“Now you put a hand around my waist.”

Mako did, then he heard a song start playing. It was a new Aria Joie song, an upbeat love ballad, good for dancing to.

“Did you just fog my music player?” Mako teased, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Yeah,” Tower smiled that sweet, shy smile Mako loved to draw out of him.

“Have you been practicing fogging without me?”

“Well, yeah. You’re just so good at it, man. I can't keep up, I was thinking I could get a bit more on your level,” Tower said, self-deprecatingly.

“Are you embarrassed?”

“A bit, you know I’m one of the worse strati at the Institute.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, though. Besides, my level’s pretty short for you, man,” Mako laughed nervously, Tower didn’t respond, “But really, ‘my level’ doesn't even know how to dance. And you do so many things better than me, like calculus, or slurpees. I hadn’t ever had a slurpee before you. You’re a cool dude, Tower.”

“I guess so,” he sounded unconvinced. Mako frowned. Being a stratus wasn’t everything. He was the best stratus in their class but that didn’t make his life any better. It didn't make his parents come for visiting days, it didn’t make him happy. Tower being his friend, now that made him happy.

“I know so,” Mako said, “Now teach me how to dance.”

“Patience.”

“What's that? Never heard of it. Sounds boring.”

Tower twisted their joined hands to elbow Mako in the side.

“Ow! What was that for?” Mako whined overdramatically.

“Focus, Mako, we’re dancing now. So I take a step towards you,” he did so, pushing their bodies flush against each other. Mako had never been so aware of his own heartbeat. He wondered if Tower could feel it thumping so hard it seemed like it would fall out of his chest, “th-that’s when you take a step back.”

“Oh, right,” Mako stepped back, trying to slow his racing breath. He looked at Tower, whose cheeks were tinged pink with the most adorable blush. He was really cute. Suddenly, Mako felt the urge to kiss Tower. He had never been very good at impulse control. Mako took a step towards Tower, stretched up on his tiptoes and leaned in to kiss his best friend. Hopefully he wasn't misreading the situation and about to destroy their friendship. Then Tower kissed him back, and he stopped worrying in favour of savoring this moment, a perfect first kiss.


	2. Sleep: Grand Magnificent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Max for helping me get that pretentious art critique voice for Grand.  
> Is Grand super in love with Echo? I'll leave that up to you.

Grand hadn’t anticipated everyone's aversion to sharing a room when he claimed his bed in the crew’s quarters. In fact he’d been worried that he would need to pull up a curtain to get some privacy from his new coworkers turned roommates. Instead he found himself lying in bed alone in an empty room. 

He couldn’t silence his mind when it came time to sleep. Long after the ship’s automated system had called out that it was time to sleep, he was still tossing and turning on the cheap cot. Grand finally got up, hoping a walk would clear his mind, and maybe he could even find someone to talk to. He found himself heading over to the pool room Gig had claimed, certain the vlogger’s mindless chatting would quiet his mind. He arrived to find the pool table empty. Grand opened the door and squeezed around the booths that lined the wall. Instead of finding Gig sitting chiperly on top of the pool table, it was empty. Grand was just about to leave and search for Gig elsewhere when he saw, sticking out from underneath the table, a foot. Gig’s foot based on the neon pink and turquoise sock. He bent down to get a better view and there he was. Under the table Gig was asleep on the carpet, curled up into a tight ball. Gig looked so fragile in his sleep, unmoving and silent in a way Grand had never seen him while awake. He looked like he needed the rest so Grand thought it better not to wake him. Maybe Echo would still be awake and willing to talk.

Grand made his way to the room of netting. Grand had thought it was a poor attempt at art from Fourteen Fifteen when he saw it the first time, a room draped in criss crossing gold wires which seemed to glow in some unknown way. The art had reflected a methodical if unambitious personality, Grand had thought, it was passable but nothing special. Then Grand had discovered that the netting was nothing but fishnets, and even worse that the unusual Quire lawyer was in actuality a body-switching assassin, full of ambition and dangerous to boot. They worked for Castle Rose, the same people who The Marquis of Transportation and Fashion had sent after him. 

Almost immediately after moving in, Echo had built themselves a hammock among the nets, a sturdy and resourceful piece of work. It served as a true statement of humanity, taking something meant for the destruction and abduction of creatures, and repurposing it for comfort and safety. Its practical use contrasted with the extravagance of the glowing gold, added a sense of absurdity, an unconscious introduction of artistic taste. It was intuitively ingenious. As was the elaborate tangle of trip wires Grand noticed just past the door. He should have anticipated something like this from Echo. They were careful to a fault, paranoid some might say. Grand wasn’t certain if the trip wire would simply wake them or have a nasty surprise in store for him, but he thought perhaps it was better to bother someone else. Maybe Even, he’d always had good advice back on Quire.

He made his way to the cockpit where he found Even, hanging from the ship by his hair. He looked like he was asleep, eyes closed and breathing soft, but his hair — or maybe tendrils was the right word for what it had become — would occasionally move, and the ship would adjust course accordingly. Grand was a big enough man to admit that he wasn't sure what had happened  to Even in their time apart, but would definitely need some time to adjust to it. He couldn’t handle Even’s weird new body parts on top of his insomnia tonight. Maybe he could find someone from the new crew to talk to. Tender was an option, she’d seemed like a sensible woman.

He seemed to remember her claiming the mech garage, so he made his way across the ship. It wasn’t very far with this ship. As soon as he reached the bay he could tell which pod bay was hers, rather than hosting assorted knick knacks or a mech, it was curtained with purple fabric, it looked like real silk to Grand’s discerning eye. It was tastefully elegant, welcoming and not too fancy. Grand was about to approach when he heard words. He wasn’t sure who she could be talking to, maybe she was just sleep talking.

He creeped slowly closer.

“Open,” he heard, “please don’t.”

A pause.

“Please, I love you,” Grand felt suddenly voyeuristic, sneaking into her room like a criminal. He could only assume she was having some kind of nightmare about Open Metal, ex-leader of Sui Juris and ex-girlfriend of Tender Sky. But it was none of his business.

Grand walked away, unsure where else he could go. Not Fourteen, the assassin certainly didn't scare Grand, but still he thought it better not to try and sneak into the captain's quarters and bother them. And he wasn’t even sure where Signet had ended up. With that, Grand finally wandered into the kitchen, and there was Signet, sitting at the table, absolutely serene.

“Oh, hi,” Grand said, caught off guard. 

“Hello.”

“You’re not asleep?”

“No, neither are you.”

“I suppose,” Grand acknowledged, “I have nightmares, what’s your excuse.”

“I felt a bit too restless this evening, I’ve been taking some time to meditate,” Signet smiled, gentle and mysterious, “Also I wasn't sure what room I was, well, allowed to sleep in.”

“Oh,” Grand said, “You could join me in the crew quarters. There’s room. And if you need space you could just sleep on the other side, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“That’s no problem. I don't need much space, Grand. Are you sure it’s alright with you?”

“Well, there aren’t really any other options. I’m sure I could sacrifice some space for a coworker to sleep.”

Signet gave him a weird smile, then made a weird noise.

“Did you just snort?” Grand asked.

“Oh no, just a cough. I must be coming down with something.”

“Just make sure you don’t cough on me, I can’t afford to get sick on the job,” Grand warned.

“Of course not.”

“Hey, you were a excerpt, right? What’s that like?” Grand asked. He’d wanted to know since he met her, but he’d been too scared. Something about the late night and lack of sleep had lowered his inhibitions.

“It’s… hard to explain, and I’m certain it varies with every Divine, but with Belgarde there was the feeling of safety — she used to make shields for the fleet, back in the day — and the thing I always remember is how safe she always made me feel.”

“Were you ever scared?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you ever doubt your...relationship?”

“Never,” she seemed so certain. None of the doubt Grand remembered from when Independence had stretched out a hand towards him. None of the terrible fear that had filled him. He’d been so scared. Scared of what would happen to the world if he accepted. Scared of what would happen to him if he didn’t. It had all been so terrible. Nothing like what Signet described. Sometimes he wondered if he’d made the right choice, but comparing Independence with Belgarde there was no question. What he’d made had been wrong, corrupted. The world was better off without his most beautiful creation.

“It’s getting late, we should head over to the crew’s quarters,” he finally said, “I’ll show you the way.”

“Sure.”

He walked back to the crew quarters with Signet in silence, but something about her presence was calming in itself. By the time they had both settled in bunks on opposite sides of the room, Grand’s mind had settled enough to sleep.


	3. Metamorphosis: Open Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went a bit more metaphorical with this one

Open Metal had started off as an architect.

Open Metal had never considered herself particularly devout, not in the sense of worshipping the Divines. Sure she respected them and their power as much as anyone, but at the end of the day, Divines were just a different type of people, strange in some ways, but not gods. No, Open Metal hadn’t become an architect in service of the fleet for the Divines, she had done it for the people. The Fleet, was… well it was good. The systems in place, the protections, they were all fine. People mostly didn’t suffer. Mostly wasn’t enough for Open. She would build, with the mesh, with her soul, a home for everyone in the fleet. She would keep them safe, but do even better. She would make them happy.

 When she first met Tender, that was when Open Metal became a criminal, at least in her own mind.

Tender made her betray her principles like no one else ever had. Open wanted to do things for Tender like she’d never wanted anything before. She would overlook—no that wasn’t it—she would _hurt_ other people if it would make Tender happy. And sometimes it did. Tender would never admit that, but she liked to know she was more important than other people. There was a precise curl to her smile and flick in her tail if she knew Open was skipping a meeting, with their superiors, with another architect, with her family, to see her. And Open had loved that smile so much that she had pushed everything aside in favour of Tender. Eventually she had pushed aside the world for Tender, offered to make her into a Divine. The whole world would see Tender as a goddess like Open had for years. Of course that was when Tender refused. Suddenly everything was too much pressure, too much commitment, too much work. 

And with one refusal Open Metal became as much a criminal in the law as she’d been in her heart.

She spent some time repenting on the By-and-By. She did all the community service they asked of her, and she did it without any bitterness, so they eventually let her return to normal life. Of course she worked, she would never hate the people of her Fleet, never flinch from helping them. And so they assumed Open Metal had repented, but they had never understood her sin. Open couldn’t regret her wish to rebuild a leader for their people after Anticipation died. All she regretted was that she had sought to make it Divine, and that she had sought to make it with Tender. She hadn’t needed Tender for the sake of the fleet, she’d wanted her for herself. Open would plan again, and she would do better. The age of Divines was ending, the fleet would need a new rule.

That was when she met Robin’s Song, and Open Metal became a revolutionary.

Song had never caught her fancy like Tender. Stupidly, Open had assumed that made him safe. If she couldn't fall in love with him, be hoodwinked by her foolish heart, she would be safe. Open had yet to learn that hard way that you could fall in love with a beautiful vision as easily as a beautiful woman. She may not love Song, but the world he painted with his pretty words; she was as stupid over them as she had been over Tender. She led a coup against her own home, against the By-and-By. She stole the Cadent Under Mirage in her throne room and she hadn't felt an ounce of sympathy for the frightened girl who lurked barely hidden beneath the title. Tender caught her there, in the throne room, sword dangling casually from her hands as if she hadn't just killed a man in cold blood. Tender showed she’d never really helped the fleet, just herself, and Open found herself wanting Tender so desperately, the woman who had always been her touchstone. But she also found she didn’t love her anymore. That Open had transformed into someone new.


	4. Vacation: Samothes/Samot, Maelgwyn

Samothes lay on his beach towel, shirtless as usual. It was entirely unfair, Samot often thought, for his husband to be so thoughtlessly attractive. He put no conscious effort into his appearance, which only made him more handsome to Samot. The low rise of his swim shorts, revealing a trail of hair up to his belly button, was not the artful display  it would be if Samot did it. It was simply the way they fit as he lay on the beach savouring the sunset.

Samothes, the divine artificer, was terrible at artifice in the sense of deception. His body was so honest. It had always drawn Samot to him. The openness of his emotions, his love written bright on his face; their son had inherited that from him. 

Speaking of their son, it was him that had brought them here, a beach in Nacre. Maelgwyn had been begging for a vacation for months, and his parents had never been able to deny him. The boy had jumped into childhood with a fervour, all of 6 years old and full of an undying inquisitive energy. He’d graduated from the simple “why” with which he had plagued his fathers and grandfather for some time and onto increasingly detailed questions on everything from the where the sun had come from, to how reconfiguration worked, to what it was like to go on vacation. He’d overheard one of his classmates at Yellow House discuss a visit to the main continent, and since then there had been no peace.

Finally they agreed on vacationing to a beach. Samothes could enjoy the sun, Maelgwyn could practice his swimming, and Samot, well, where his boys were happy he would be too. The book he had brought lay neglected on his lap as he watched Maelgwyn splashing about in the shallows, at home as any fish. He picked up a shell and examined it for a few moments before running over to Samot.

“For you,” he said, arms outstretched. His wide grin showed the hole where his first tooth had fallen out a week before, his curly hair stuck out around his head like a short and fluffy halo. Samot ran one hand through it as he picked up the shell with his other. It was iridescent; cream with hints of pink and turquoise in the light.

“Thank you, Maelgwyn. It’s very beautiful,” he said.

“I found it. And I thought of you because it’s like your ring that Papa gave you, the real pretty one. So I wanted to give you it. So you have a ring from Papa and a seashell from me. And they match!”

“They do, indeed,” Samot’s eyes darted to his engagement ring, inlaid with an opal, “Where did you get such a discerning eye for fashion?”

“What’s discerning?” Maelgwyn asked, brown furrowed.

“It means making a good choice.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed proudly, “I learnt from you!”

“What a charmer you are,” he kissed Maelgwyn on the forehead. Maelgwyn responded with a hug, wrapping his arms around Samot’s neck and laying his head on his shoulder.

“Okay, now I’m gonna go swimming again,” Maelgwyn said as he pulled away.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Samot agreed, and the boy ran back to the pool. He returned to splashing his feet in the tide pool, murmuring greetings to the fish and crabs he found within.

“Very thoughtful, that boy,” Samothes said.

“He gets it from his father,” Samot could feel a soft smile pulling up his lips.

“Sounds like a good man.” 

“He is,” Samot said, and he meant it, with all the love that filled his heart, “He could stand to be a bit more humble, but I consider myself very lucky to have him.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Samothes rolled over and lifted Samot’s hand to his lips, “To have caught the love of a wild wolf.”

“Haven’t you heard, husband? The wolf has been tamed, they say so in all the stories of your church.”

“I wonder if they would still say that if they saw me dragged out of Marielda, into the wilderness.”

“Wilderness?” Samot threw back his head with a laugh, “We’re in Nacre, darling. We slept in an inn last night. Come join me on the Plains of Celebration, and I’ll show you wilderness.”

“I’ve seen, many times,” Samothes’ eyes shone like the sun, “Perhaps when we get back from this vacation, father can look after Maelgwyn and you can remind me just how wild you are.”

“Perhaps,” Samot watched the sun set, wondering if it was possible to feel any happier than he felt right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maelgwyn talking to the fish is loosely inspired by Annie's adorable twitter drawings of young Maelgywn which everyone should check out if they haven't seen yet https://twitter.com/dancynrew/status/964303926613786624
> 
> UPDATE BECAUSE THERE'S ART: https://twitter.com/dancynrew/status/965111378229977090


	5. Blades: Hella/OFC

When Hella Varal had first been sent away to school she had cried. At eight years old she had never been away for more than a day, let alone months on end. And besides, how would she look out for her younger brother, or her baby sibling yet to be born, still a bump in her mother’s stomach. How would the child grow to know and love her if she was never there?

But school was what was done. Her family was of high standing, and both her parents had served time in the military. It took some weeks for Hella to adjust to school, but eventually she did. In many ways it reminded her of home, the sword fighting, Ordennan politics and etiquette were just more advanced versions of the basics her parents and taught. Hella had always been extraordinary with the practice sword at home and that held up here. The only problem with Hella was the speed with which she ran through weapons. She followed every rule of sword care to the letter, but each would eventually find a way to simply collapse.

At first she broke wooden practice swords, and no one batted an eye. The swords were older and weak, most students had broken at least one over the course of their training. But as she moved on to metal swords it became an increasing problem. Hella found herself well acquainted with the school’s blacksmith. And even better acquainted with the blacksmith’s newest apprentice.

Their first meeting had been brief, Hella had been sent on the trek to the forge, near the edge of the school’s grounds, to request a replacement for her third broken sword. Hella knew when she was being punished, but she took it like a warrior, knowing that whining never got anyone anywhere.

When Hella first saw the girl, she was working the bellows. As she moved her arms, Hella could see the muscles flexing beneath her white shirt, cut tight to avoid trailing ends getting caught in the fire. She seemed strong, almost as strong as Hella, and around the same age. Hella gave her trademark cocky smile, and the girl smiled back briefly before her eyes darted back to her work, a blush spreading across her brown cheeks. The girl was pretty, Hella noticed with all the subtlety of a girl only recently reached maturity. Her long black hair was tied in a braid down her back, and her eyes were a speckled greenish-brown. She was large, with both muscle and fat, soft curves and powerful arms. Just as Hella was thinking of what to say, the blacksmith arrived. He took Hella’s request and sent her on her way, but the blacksmith’s apprentice refused to leave her mind.

She didn’t have to wait very long to see her again. A few months and broken swords later, Hella was sent back. There again was the girl. She wore the same plain black leggings and white shirt as before. There were a few smudges on her shirt, but it was surprisingly clean for someone working in a forge, she likely washed it regularly, bleached the white to keep it bright. She worked again with the bellows, maintaining the fire.

“Hey,” Hella greeted.

“Hi,” the girl responded, looking up.

“I’m Hella, Hella Varal.”

“Uh, I’m Galora. The blacksmith will be back in just a few minutes.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Hella grinned.

“Okay,” the girl went back to her work, as if Hella wasn’t even there. Act casual, Elris had said when asked how to impress girls. Well, casual wasn’t working.

“So,” Hella searched her mind for something to say, “Do you come here often?”

“I work here,” Galora spoke nonchalantly, as if Hella hadn’t just said the stupidest thing ever. Do you come here often, was she an idiot?

Before Hella could respond, the blacksmith returned. She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than what she would have said next. She delivered the order to the blacksmith, knowing she’d be back soon.

The third time Hella visited the blacksmith she had a plan. This plan had involved consultation with Elris and Lyn, in case Elris’ plan turned out to be useless again. 

“You have to seem uninterested,” Elris said, “If you’re too into her she’ll think you’re desperate. You have to act like you don’t even care what she thinks.”

“How is this girl gonna know Hella likes her?” Lyn interrupted, turning to Hella, “You don’t want to seem obsessed, but you have to give her something to go off.”

“I told her my name.”

“That doesn’t count,” Lyn rolled their eyes, “ _ I _ know your name, it doesn’t mean you’re in love with me.”

“I’m not in love with her!” Hella’s face grew hot.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Elris muttered.

“Shut up, Elris! It’s not like you’ve had any more luck with girls.”

“Forget it, Hella,” Lyn interrupted, “he’s just jealous. So, the first step to getting a girl is talking to her.”

“And saying something other than ‘do you come here often,’” Elris added.

“Yes, and that.”

“I know  _ that _ ,” Hella whined, “But what  _ do _ I say?”

“Tell her about yourself,” Elris suggested.

“So close,” Lyn sighed, “ _ ask _ her about herself. Let her talk, and if she’s interested she’ll ask you questions back.”

So Hella arrived at the blacksmith with the list from her instructor in her hand (horseshoes, nails, training swords) and the list from herself in her head (why study blacksmithing? what were her hobbies? did she want to hang out?). As always, when she arrived Galora was working at the forge alone, this time she had upgraded from the bellows to start hammering away at a small piece of of metal.

“Hello,” Hella called out.

“Hey, uh, Hella, wasn’t it?” Galora remembered her name, that was promising.

“Yeah.”

“Let me just finish this nail and I can take your order,” she returned to her work, striking at metal with hammer,  _ clang, clang. _

This wasn't the plan at all, where would she find time to talk, “But, shouldn’t I wait for the blacksmith?”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Galore teased, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“No! I just- Well- There was a plan,” Hella blurted out. 

“A plan?” Galore sounded confused, her brow wrinkled slightly. Like everything else she did it was unfairly beautiful. Hella spent a few moments getting lost in her now squinting eyes before she remembered she'd been asked a question. 

Hella felt her face turning red, “Yes?”

“What kind of plan?”

“A plan for me to ask you if maybe you wanted to meet up sometime when you’re not working,” Hella kept her tone he carefully uninvested, casual. 

“Oh! Like, a date?” Galora blushed. Her hands stuttered for a moment, the rhythm of the hammer slipping.

“Yes! I mean, if you want it to be.”

“I’d like that, maybe this Sunday. I’ll meet you outside the forge, and we can walk around the city. I know a great inn nearby.”

“Sure,” Hella smiled so wide she felt as though her face might split, “I’ll see you Sunday at 11.”

Hella turned to leave and made it halfway back to her dorms before she remembered she had never actually given Galora the list for the blacksmith. She rushed back and arrived, red faced and panting.

“I forgot to give you this,” she handed the list over sheepishly.

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” as Galora reached over and took the paper, her hands brushed against Hella’s. They were calloused and burned from working the forge, powerful and competent and all the more beautiful for it. Hella let her hands linger a few seconds longer than strictly necessary before she pulled away.

“I should get back, but I’ll see you,” Hella said as she walked away.

“Goodbye again.”

That Sunday Hella want on her first of many dates with Galora. Over her years in the academy, Hella became an increasingly frequent sight at the forge as Galora graduated to advanced apprentice, under-blacksmith, and eventually head blacksmith in her own right. Even after school, when Hella joined the Ordennan army, Galora was the always the one she asked to replace her swords when they inevitably broke. Until one day, when Hella’s blade broke far from home and the replacement she was offered turned out to be that strange, strange blade in the dark. She kept waiting for the ancient blade to break so she would have to replace it, but it never did. Hella spent some time visiting the school under increasingly ridiculous pretences. But then came the debacle of the tower, and the next time Hella returned to Ordenna she came with a new title—Queen Killer. She didn't have time to stop and see a blacksmith when she still had a perfectly serviceable blade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up much longer than I expected, I may revisit Galora and this world again in a later fic with more time to really do her justice.  
> Ordennan education is based on my vague recollections of learning about Spartan warrior training in high school.


	6. Fire: Yellow House

Yellow House had stood for a long time. You didn't last that long, especially as a school of knowledge in Marielda, without learning a few things about fire. Play in the dark, their motto went, lest the heat catch you standing still. Avoid the heat, avoid the light, and that was survival. So they built themselves rooms, dark studies and libraries of wonder and learning 

The problem with rooms made of wood, they quickly learnt, was that they burnt. When you ran beneath the radar of the Golden Lance, fire was always a concern. They tried, at first, to build without wood but it turned out to be impossible. Something about Marielda rejected stone houses. Aside from the strange Cobbin architecture in Emberborough and the ancient buildings designed by Samothes himself, every building in the city was wood. There was a natural order built into the very bones of the city; paladins were made of stone, the golden lance carried fire, and the buildings were made of wood. It held the law together, the power of fire. Who could be hurt and who could do the hurting.

When Mrs. Manufactory first took over she tried to find a loophole, some way to make the wood fireproof, or find some stone that wouldn’t be reconfigured away within a week of starting construction. Nothing stuck, so it was set aside. A background project for the scholars of the Yellow House. Perhaps that had been foolish, perhaps she would have regretted it had she lived to see the fire. A fire that licked through a school house of children and burnt it to the ground. The students had lived, but still it was a tragedy and too close call. 

A punishment from Samothes, some thought, for seeking knowledge beyond their place. A conspiracy, others whispered, the complex plan of a single greedy man. Either way, Yellow House never really recovered; not from the failure at Memoriam College, and not from the fire.


	7. Get Ready: Gig

It had become something of a catchphrase, almost accidentally.

“Get ready,” Gig would say before a really interesting part of his stream. 

He didn't even notice it at first, it was just a natural side effect of getting swept up in his own enthusiasm. A single joint about to fit in perfectly, supporting the entirety of the structure: get ready. A hole fixed just in time to prevent a ship wide heat sink: get ready. A swimming pool built for a small community: get ready. 

It became something of an inside joke among his fans; websites and blogs with the phrase as their titles (using increasingly creative spellings). It took a while for Gig to catch on. He loved his fans but didn't like to get too involved in fan spaces. It felt a bit invasive, and mostly made him overthink everything he did, taking every minute criticism as a blow to his self esteem. The first time he heard it, it took him off guard. A fan getting an autograph had walked away with a brief "get ready" and a laugh, as though they had made a funny joke. Gig, hating to be out of the loop, had instantly pulled up the mesh and searched up "get ready." 

He scanned through the results and found—himself. A million videos and gifs of himself, all saying that phrase. He could barely believe it. He’d never even noticed himself saying it, but collected like this he sounded like a broken record, a stupid cliche. He wondered briefly whether he should stop saying it, but the people didn’t seem to be making fun of him. In fact, they seemed to really like it, an in-joke shared by fans across the fleet.

Gig liked that, being a connection through the fleet, to ships even beyond the Gambit. So next stream he said it with a bit of a wink, “Get ready for this, guys, it’s gonna be great.” 

Then they turned on the fan system his team had worked tirelessly over for the past week, and the blades spun as silently as intended, and it was. 


	8. Ship: Audy

A long time ago, back when Audy had been nothing more than one Automated Dynamics unit among many, driving hadn’t meant anything. They had done it because it was part of their programming, an mindless instinct built into their very being. They had taken other people’s cars and driven them to parking lots and parked them. It was simple and boring, chauffeuring. 

There was a time after they became sentient where they avoided all vehicles as tedious bad memories. 

That changed the first time they flew a spaceship. They remembered the feeling of first sitting in a pilot seat, all the buttons and levers just making sense. They were purposeful and complex and interesting. Audy flew up and up and up, breaking from the domed sky of  Counterweight, and suddenly driving was not so boring. They swooped around, manoeuvring around imagined obstacles, calculating trajectory with their beyond-human processing power. This, they discovered, was not driving but piloting. Audy felt it calling to them in a visceral part of them, that strange, irrational part that had awoken with their personhood. They decided, just as they had decided their name was Audy, that they were a pilot. They loved it, but there was always something missing. Something that could have been improved upon. 

Then Orth presented them with the offer join his team and, in return, get a ship of their own. Audy accepted and shortly after had their very own ship—the Kingdom Come. There was a power in ownership, Audy quickly learnt. Customs officers didn’t like to hear that Audy owned the ship, couldn’t conceive of a robot owning something. There were a few missions where Audy conceded to allow another crew member to fake ownership of the ship for ease. But they were few and far between. Audy hated it. It was wrong. Their name was Audy, they were a pilot, they owned the Kingdom Come. These were the few facts Audy knew about themselves with certainty, and they didn’t like to give them up. 

They tried to explain it to Cassander once, when their friend questioned them. They mostly avoided talking much to their crew mates, content to passively watch the strange human interactions the others liked to engage in. They figured Mako and Aria spoke enough for a whole crew between the two of them, Audy didn’t need to add anything and they never felt that human urge to simply converse for the sake of it. But Cassander pulled something strange out of them. The scion was quiet, considerate, attentive. They would ask Audy questions in just the same way they asked Mako and Aria, which was the only reason Audy was willing to answer them. Sometimes the questions were purely conversational, other times they were out of a strange concern for Audy’s mental health. Audy tried to explain that they weren’t able to have human illness to which Cassander would simply respond, “I know, but I still worry.”

The closest Audy had come to making Cassander understand their feelings about the Kingdom Come was their attempt at a simile. 

“It’s like an anchor,” they had explained, “The things I know hold me to myself. I know I will stay Audy because don’t open myself to the mesh and because I remind myself who I am. I hope that clarifies it, as I understand it most humans do not worry about losing their self like this.”

“I don’t know about that,” Cassander muttered cryptically. 

“Explain.”

“It’s individuality, Audy,” Cassander reached over and laid a hand on Audy’s. Their grip was firm and warm against Audy's metallic skin, “You’re scared of losing your individuality. Or your ‘authentic self’ as Aria would call it. Everyone’s scared of losing it. That’s just a part of having it.”

“Oh,” Audy paused for a second, thinking,  “That seems like a very inefficient system.”

Cassander had laughed then; that full, body-shaking way they had which managed not to be mocking even when it followed Audy’s conspicuously non-human quirks, “Welcome to being alive. It’s all inefficient nonsense.”

“That doesn’t seem very funny, Cassander,” if Audy could frown they would, instead they simply modulated their tone to something resembling confusion.

“Sometimes, Audy, sometimes you have to laugh because otherwise you’d cry.”

“That makes no sense.”

“There's no sense to it, Audy,” Cassander said, they looked at Audy with some complex emotion shining in their eyes, sadness and...something else, “Emotions just are.” 

“Well then I’m happy to be free of them.”

“You would be,” Cassander sighed, “Maybe just consider the possibility you aren’t as emotionless as you think.”

Audy did think about it, frequently after that conversation. Most often when they piloted the Kingdom Come. There was something inexplicable in their connection to the ship, to flying. An emotion of some kind: happiness, perhaps even love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got vaguely Cass/Audy towards the end which is really @harpydora's fault for introducing me to the ship.


	9. Warmth: Castille

“The worst part is honestly the cold,” Castille confessed to Hitchcock, back when she still thought there was a Hitchcock and not Hitchcocks, “It just seeps into the stone and sits there, all the way into my core.”

He nodded, sympathetically. Hitchcock was very good at sympathy, she had noticed. He knew the exact level of sadness in his eyes, frown in his mouth, the proper tilt of his head to avoid seeming either unconcerned or downright pitying. Sometimes, when she was feeling less charitable, she wondered whether he knew nearly as much about empathy as sympathy. So much about him seemed carefully cultivated, acted out to perfection. Or, not perfection, she would later learn, but passing. Enough to make it by, squeezing two people into one body and hoping there was enough to fill. Always doubting that they were real enough for one person, let alone two. Castille could have reassured them, had they asked, after she found out the truth. It was obvious when you starting looking. There were so many differences, small but pronounced, that they revealed carelessly. Both walked with a careful, determined grace, but Edmund always walked a little bit more like a dancer and Ethan like a soldier. It wasn’t something easy to put your finger on but the trained fluidity of movement they shared was distinct. In the precise cadence of footsteps on stone, they were impossible to confuse. They also had different favourite foods, Castille wasn’t sure they even knew. When asked directly, both replied duck l’orange, and sure they’d eat it at fancy parties, but when simply offered a choice of foods, Ethan always gravitated towards plain old steak while Edmund chose pasta over any other meal.

Most notably, they hugged differently, in a complementary fashion, as if they had learned with each other. Ethan would put his arms on top of your shoulders, even when hugging Castille,  reaching up  as though he could simply envelop you in his arms, protect you from the world. Edmund would do they opposite. He hugged low, around the waist, and tried to tuck himself into the person he was hugging. He would rest his head on your shoulder, nestled in the crook of your neck. It was the same when they cuddled, on the cold winter days when the Six schemed in their poorly heated basement of a basement of a dance studio. Ethan would always be the big spoon, Edmund the little, cradling Castille or Aubrey or Sige, whoever was there to share their warmth.

Castille learned all these tiny differences the same way she learned about Aubrey’s love of apples, a new and exotic fruit, or the way Sige was privately devout, having learnt the creed of Samothes from his parents back when he was a child and never fully losing the faith. These were the things Castille remembered, years later after the Six killed Samothes and parted ways. These were things which comforted her, kept her warm through cold, cold winters in the tomb of Samothes. 


	10. Stars: Gray/Demani

Gray loved the stars. There were things she missed about the being on cycle, about living on a planet, but the sky was never one of them. Sure, sunsets were beautiful, but she would trade million individual suns viewed over the horizon in favour of seeing them all laid out in the distance.

There was something appealing about the patterns they formed, the constellations that idle minds drew between pricks of glowing gas in the sky. It was so very human to read meaning into every chaotic formation of the universe.

One of the first thing she’d done with Demani, after they’d set up The Brink, was go stargazing. It wasn’t hard to get a clear view, out with no atmosphere.

They laid out on the wooden bar, after cleaning off the spills that were always left by the end of the day. They stared out the glass wall (not a window, Demani insisted, if it took up the whole left side of the station) and held hands, metal and skin interlocking as if they had been built to fit together. Perhaps that was an overly romantic notion, but Gray could afford those these days. Now that she had shed the title of Satellite and was able to simply live, in peace and in love with her fiancée. And wasn’t that just the most incredible thought, fiancée. She had never even dreamed, never dared to dream, that she would be so happy, laying next to her soon to be wife in their home and tracking the constellations in the sky.

Of course, viewed from within the mirage, they weren’t the same constellations as on cycle. But that was alright, they made their own. The Dancing Lady who shared the foot of the Pilot from back home. The Duelist using the Big Dipper’s handle as a sword. 

Demani was eternally inventive with the constellations she saw, drawing inspiration from the group who now called themselves the Notion, but who she had watched and rooted for and eventually joined to prevent the ascension of Independence. 

That circle could be nothing but an eye, out recording the truth to show the people, but with an equal balance of joy to comfort them. Gray laughed when Demani proposed these names, but accepted them into the star maps she kept banked in her servers. The Eye, the Onomastic, a series of curing lines resembling something like flowing dress or maybe ribbons, the Mystic, a figure with two pointed ears, like a cat. These careful constellations, building meaning and memory from the void, filled Gray’s heart. Every time she looked up at the stars she was reminded of Demani. Of the brave woman who had defied all orders of destruction to chase the possibility of salvation. The woman who had loved her and saved her, and who she loved equally in return. It comforted her, when they were parted. 

But today Demani was right there next to her, and she turned to Gray with a smile, pulling her from her thoughts. Gray smiled back and leaned over to kiss Demani, gently, a reassurance. She was happy, she was in love, life was good.


	11. Divine Intervention: Fero

Fero wasn’t sure what to do anymore. That scared him more than anything. He’d never been without a plan before. Or maybe plan wasn’t the right word, he didn’t tend to really think through his actions. But there was always a goal. A method of attack, even if the method turned out to be something as stupid as sailing to Nacre. 

But with this, the Heat and the Dark, all Fero knew was he had to stop it, because no one else could. No one knew how. The only problem was that Fero didn’t know how either. He’d tried. He’d brought Uklan Tel to the mark of the erasure, abandoning Throndir and Ephrim, though was it really abandoning if they had left him first? But it had been pointless, anyway. Uklan hadn’t been able to solve the apocalypse any more than the rest of them. Nor had he — as a Fero had secretly wished — brought Lem back. When Fero had brought it up, just once, as casually as he could, all the Archivist had said was that Lem had been sent to where he could do the most good. Well that was fine. And it was fine that that place was so far from Fero. He hated stupid Lem King and his stupid patterns and the stupid way he used to hum the song he wrote for Fero idly as they travelled together. Fero would stop the Heat and the Dark and show him, show them all. 

He just needed some time, and some sleep. That was the only reason he lay in a cave, curled up tight, eyes damp with tears. It was exhaustion and frustration, nothing else. And it would be fixed, all of it would be fixed, just as soon as he stopped the Heat and the Dark. 

Fero fell into a restless dream. It began with the same scene his torturer had pulled out of him back in the archives. He was out on Calhoun’s boat, fight raging around them, and he had to transform to go fight. But in this dream he froze, remembering the sands of Rosemerrow, the wolves, everything that vanished when he transformed, and he just couldn’t. He couldn’t do that anymore. He couldn’t destroy the world for a second of convenience, an instance of victory. There was so little left, so little left and no one to save it. And Fero began to cry in full, shuddering sobs that wracked through him. He cried longer and harder than he’d ever thought he could, unable to stop. 

That was how she found him, when she approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Little bird,” Severea murmured, “My chosen, my Druid, why do you despair?”

“Why- why do I?” Fero gasped, tears paused from sheer shock, “Why  _ don’t you _ despair? Why doesn’t everyone? The world is ending and there’s nothing any of us can do! Nothing but wait around and lose everyo- everything.”

“Nothing?” Severea asked, “Are you certain of that?”

“I don’t see anyone fixing anything.” 

“Have you considered the possibility that you aren’t looking hard enough? Everyone is fixing something, little bird. It’s all a matter of scale. We may not have ended the Heat and the Dark permanently, but to overlook every small victory because it wasn’t the final battle, that is how wars are lost. We do much. My love and I, we lead our party, and we’ve been patching together pieces of Hieron for longer than you have lived. We built the foundation on which Velas and Rosemerrow stand, strengthening the land to support cities before we were forced east again by the degradation.” 

“But then what’s the point?” Fero yelled, “So now everything here is getting eaten! Nothing’s changed.”

“Everything has changed,” Severea said, “You and everyone you know are here because the west was strengthened. And now all of you are here, sustaining Heiron just by living. Yellow House had it right in part, playing in the dark is how we fight it best. My brother has always said there's nothing the Heat and the Dark hates so much as a smile. You do so much to protect this world just by loving it as you do.”

Her eyes were the kindest Fero had ever seen, they were gentle and beautiful and looked right through him, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe her. 

“How can you say that?" he felt his voice tremble, "Knowing all the things I've erased from existence with my powers, how can you possibly think I’m saving anything.”

“Because I know you have. I have seen many futures, Fero Feritas, and those without you are never as good as those with you.”

Fero was struck speechless by the brutal honesty of her tone. A goddess telling him, a nobody from Rosemerrow that he affected the future of the world. That he actually did help people. He suddenly felt both the biggest and smallest he had ever felt in his life. He imagined the vastness of Hieron, all of those people, being saved by each other, and felt the hope he had abandoned slowly start to return. 

“Okay,” he finally said, “I’ll try to help them. But… can I just stay here with you for a little bit.”

“Of course,” she opened her arms and Fero, feeling the irresistible welcome of his goddess, rushed into them, resting his head against her chest and feeling her steady heartbeat. It was like an army drum, its rhythm a guiding force among the chaos around him. He stayed there until he woke the next morning, feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks.


	12. Time is Long: Jace/Addax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter is rated M and contains an implied abusive relationship in one time loop 
> 
> Also, I may have taken major liberties with how this memory thing works because I literally cannot remember what we canonically know about it

If there was one thing the simulation had taught Jace, it was the malleability of time. Months repeated over and over in varying configurations. Sometimes jumping back further, rewriting the details of his childhood. In one he had never flown a rigger, instead he’d been a medic, training in the OriCon army as always, but down a different path. That attempt had ended catastrophically. With Jace prevented from going on the final mission, Addax and Order had claimed the Apostolisian weapon for the Diaspora and turned the war to a never ending bloodshed. 

In other ways that had been the best simulation. Jace had met Tea and started their relationship after healing her, in the days before she led the Queen’s Gambit. They had eventually parted on good terms, as they did in most versions, when far off postings made a relationship too difficult. When Tea joined the Kingdom Come and discovered they were short on medics she had recommended him. It was strange, at first, to be on the crew as anything other than the hero of OriCon. In this simulation he shared quarters with another OriCon medic, Wells, and ate in the crew’s cafeteria unharassed by an adoring OriCon crew or distrustful Diasporans. In this simulation he’d had to make an effort to get to know Addax, taking care to conveniently wander the same hallways Addax would pace on sleepless nights. But oh, how it had been worth it. Without the rivalry between  them, Addax had been so sweet. He knew Jace was from OriCon, but he didn't fear a doctor, a non-combatant, the way he had with Jace Rethal, pilot of the Panther, always a possible traitor. 

In that version they had spoken, in the dark bowels of the ship at night, of their deepest wishes and fears. And one night Addax had leaned over to Jace, closer and closer and closer and kissed him. Jace took a moment to notice this was the earliest it had happened; the first simulation they had kissed before Ibex arrived, when they could be slow and gentle and optimistic rather than rushed and desperate, a hopeless attempt to find some good in the destruction looming over their mission. Then he pushed those thoughts aside in favour of leaning up to Addax, deepening the kiss. In that simulation they had grown so close, closer than ever before, until the final weeks when Addax began to push Jace away.

“I need to focus on the mission,” Addax said one night, as they lay together in the bed they had shared for months, “Just for a while. Just until we can find this device. It will end the war, Jace, but I can't be distracted.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Jace wondered sadly, “A mindless distraction from what's really important?” He wouldn’t have said that in reality, too worried about the sector to focus on his own pain, but this was a simulation. He wanted to push, he needed to know.

“No,” Addax looked so wounded by the possibility Jace would even think such a thing, “I love you Jace, more than most things in life, but I have a duty to the whole sector. It’s- it would be  _ so easy _ for me to get lost in you, to try and flee with you so we could be safe. It’s  _ so _ tempting, Jace, and I can’t let myself do that. I can’t let people die for my own selfish wants. I need to focus on the big picture.”

And Jace had to push, just a bit more, “Addax please, we could. Just leave and be safe. They can do this without you, they could find a new candidate for Peace.”

Addax looked at him helplessly, like a child looks to their parents in crisis, like an animal wounded by a weapon beyond its comprehension, like Jace had torn him in two. Jace could feel his chest burning with a twisted pain; it hurt just to look at Addax, the man he loved so much, the man he hurt for his own sick curiosity. The simulation froze, jumped back a few seconds. 

“...It will end the war, Jace, but I can't be distracted.”

“I understand,” Jace said, holding in tears that had no place in this loop. Tears for the Addax who had confessed to wanting to abandon his people and his duty, all for Jace.Tears for the part of Jace that wished he would.

There wasn’t long after that until the end of the mission, the failure. And then again, another loop. Everything reset in infinite configurations. Another time Jace was a pilot as usual, but here Addax had lost his parents to an OriCon strike team before the tenuous truce. This Addax was cruel, crueler than most, and one of the later simulations. By the time he arrived Jace was so in love with Addax, every iteration of the man he loved and lost and loved again. And this Addax was observant enough to notice.

Jace remembered, vividly, the feeling of being cornered in the halls of Peace, those strange twisting and echoing catwalks, after a routine briefing. Addax had asked him to stay a few minutes, with that politeness this Addax had, a politeness that hid a well of pain and malice. This was not the brash man Jace generally loved, but there were just enough hints of him, in those moments when Addax didn't know Jace was there, when he was resting, at peace, that Jace’s foolish heart still ached for him.

“You love me,” Addax said, voice as cool as ice.

“I- no,” Jace hesited, Addax rarely confronted him about his crush, even when the other man felt the same, he had no response ready for the situation. 

A moment’s hesitation was all Addax needed. He leaned in, backing Jace against the wall and kissed him. The kiss was hard, and he bit Jace’s lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Jace pulled back, “What-”

Addax cut him off with another kiss, refusing to back off or give him a moment to breathe. When they finally parted Jace was panting. Addax sneered.

“I don’t need your mouth for talking, Rethal, but if you want to put it to good use…”

“Your room is probably closer,” Jace said.

“Who said anything about rooms?” Addax pushed him to the floor. If Jace where a smarter man he would have left then and there, but he was in love. And besides, he tried to justify, this was just another simulation, just another temporary experiment. 

That run was entirely unproductive, this Addax was cruel and antagonistic and in war and in bed alike. He couldn’t form alliances with Jace or Sokrates or even Ibex in this world, too paranoid and power hungry. Another loop ending with Jace taking the weapon from Addax; he trusted this Addax with it even less than most. Another loss, another failure, another loop.  After it all, Jace jumped back to the moment this Addax first kissed him, looked into his emotionless eyes and walked away. It ended the same way, Addax entreating him to hand over the weapon. He used the exact same words and the exact same heartless tone, “I can end the war.”

Jace didn't want to know what else Addax would end with the weapon. And again, another loop.

When Jace finally woke from the loop he was unprepared, forced back into the world of unpredictability and consequences. He remet his Addax and relearned all the details of him. Many things about him were the same, his secret love of peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, his nervous habit of fiddling with the zippers on his flight suit, his favourite song of an old lullaby that his mother had sung to him. Other times Jace found himself referencing inside jokes he’d never made with this Addax. But still, Jace knew, time was long, he had plenty of time to relearn it all, and to fall in love with this man all over again. 


	13. Regret: Arrell/Alyosha

Arrell remembered his last day with Alyosha well. It had been a bad day, an unfortunate parting, soured further in his memories by time and regret.  Arrell had been staying at the the Exarch’s cottage where Alyosha was working to maintain a small outpost Church. The clergy there consisted of him and one local, services were infrequent and poorly attended. Alyosha always insisted it was a success. 

“Every spread of our Lord’s light is a victory,” he had told Arrell one night. 

Arrell had scoffed,  _ “Our _ Lord?”

Alyosha had sighed—that quiet, resigned sigh Arrell found himself drawing out of his lover more and more frequently these day—but let the matter lie. There had been a time, early on, when Alyosha would respond, argue with Arrell that Samothes guided him even if he didn’t worship the god. Those days were long gone, and Arrell wasn’t sure if the silence he had fought so hard for really was the victory he had anticipated. 

But that hadn’t been the argument that ruined their last day together, no that honor fell to Arrell’s last minute departure. He needed to return to the university to continue his studies into the Heat and the Dark, specifically the Book of Life. He had put off telling Alyosha for far too long, he could admit that to himself now at least, just as he could acknowledge that the reason for his dawdling was that he didn’t really want to leave. He wished he could stay with Alyosha; live forever in this peaceful interlude, in a cottage next to a Church with the man he loved.

Instead, he chose to leave. He also chose to reveal it in the worst way possible. They were sitting, having dinner, the night before he was due to leave, when it happened. 

“I was thinking,” Alyosha said, “You could come to market with me tomorrow. You always complain that I don’t get you the right fruits, and I know you don’t have any pupils booked for tomorrow, so we can take the day to shop and spend some time together.”

And that was the moment Arrell would have to admit it. And he’d known it was coming but he still wasn’t ready. He didn’t know how to say it. How to soften the blow, how to explain himself. And so he didn’t. 

“I cannot go shopping with you,” Arrell declared. 

“Oh,” Alyosha frowned, confused. 

“I will be leaving tomorrow, to-“

“What?” Alyosha was angry, his lips pursed tightly as if that could hold back the emotion, “When were you planning to tell me that? If I hadn’t asked, would I have just returned home tomorrow to find you gone? Spent my whole evening waiting for you to come home for dinner. Wondering and worrying over what had happened to you.”

“Don’t be foolish, Alyosha, I would have left a note,” Arrell said.

“Oh, well if you had left a note,” Alyosha’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “Do you even hear yourself, tutor?”

“You are being unreasonable, Alyosha.”

“I don't think that I am, actually,” Alyosha spat. 

“You knew I would have to leave from the moment I arrived.”

Alyosha looked at him with some unreadable emotion in his eyes, then he sighed, sinking into his seat like something within him had collapsed. All the anger left him in an instant, and he simply looked sad, fragile and wounded.

“I just thought I would have time. Some advanced warning to prepare. I suppose I should have known,” Alyosha said. 

Anger, Arrell knew how to respond to. He could yell and hurt and criticize with the best of them. But this defeated Alyosha? He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Eventually he went to bed. When Alyosha joined him later that night, he pretended to be asleep. He feigned sleep even as he felt wet drops falling onto his face, even as he heard Alyosha ask, “Do you even love me?”

He didn’t respond. That was his worst regret by the end. As the world began to fall apart around him; his plan failing and Alyosha missing. He wished he had sat up, held Alyosha in his arms and told him that he loved him more than anything else in the world. That the real reason he was trying to save this whole damned world was because Alyosha lived in it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arrell is the WORST


	14. Saplings: Lem & Fero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 11:51 which means this is technically still posted on time...
> 
> Anyway this is definitely Lem and Fero pre-slash (or maybe I'm just thinking of all of canon).

Lem would like to say he’d always found gardening soothing, but that would be a fairly inaccurate assessment. Back in his dorm at the New Archives he had kept precisely two cactuses, one of which had been a replacement for the cactus he had managed to kill a few months before he ran away with the violin.

No, Lem’s love of gardening had a different origin, one sitting in front of him whispering to a sapling at this very moment.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Fero told the tree, running hand over its small leaves, “It’ll be okay.”

Fero pulled his scarf off his neck and wrapped it around the base of the tree, brushing off the snow that had settled around it.

“What are you doing?” Lem asked.

“I’m giving it my scarf. It’s cold, Lem, these tree weren’t meant to grow in the snow.”

“But won’t you need the scarf yourself, later?” Lem worried.

“Um, maaaybe,” Fero drew out the vowel, rocking back on his heels, “But the tree needs it more. It’s just a baby.”

Lem frowned. Fero would definitely need that scarf, Hieron had gotten cold since whatever Hadrian, Throndir, and Fantasmo had done at the Mark of the Erasure. And besides, there were many more saplings in the area, and even more would come on their journey. Fero couldn’t go around giving away every scrap of clothing. As appealing as Lem might find that idea in… other contexts, in this one he’d just freeze to death. Lem bit his lip as he considered an alternative. Perhaps, with the right pattern…

“What if,” Lem mused, “What if, Fero, I use a pattern?”

“What kind of pattern?”

“A warming pattern. I think I can get it just right to cover the area for at least a few months. It would make it warmer and melt the snow, then you can keep your scarf.”

“Oh!” Fero exclaimed, beaming, “That’s a good idea Lem.”

Lem felt himself blush.

“Just make sure it’s not too hot, we don’t want the trees to get dried out, or burnt.”

“Of course,” Lem agreed.

Lem then began walking in a circle around the grove. He needed to find the spot with the best acoustics for echoing out a long, gentle warmth. He would have occasionally called out, to check the sound, but Fero had that covered, following Lem and chattering the whole time. Whenever they passed another plant he checked in, asking how it felt, whether it had enough sun and water, and telling it that they were going to make it warmer. For a few, he paused, dug around the plant slightly, then reached into his bag and pulled out some mixture that he sprinkled into the hole before covering it again. In between trees he would talk with Lem, who gave intermittent responses in the conversation, interspersed with Fero getting distracted by random birds or squirrels which he would greet as excitedly as an old friend. Lem listened to his familiar voice and tracked the echoes until he heard the right reverberations.

“Here,” he declared. They both stopped walking and he looked at Fero who smiled up at him encouragingly.

Lem pulled out his violin and began to play a soft, hopeful melody. He filled it with the care Fero showed plants, with his trust in Lem, and the warmth of his smile, like sunlight on a summer day. The melody took some time to play out, slowly winding its way through until Lem reached the moment where it felt right to end. Then Lem looked up from his violin and felt a warmth rush around him. He grinned proudly and turned to Fero just in time to notice the halfling jumping up to hug him and catch him in his arms.

“I knew you could do it!” Fero said, and Lem felt a warmth rise in his chest to rival that of the pattern in the grove.


	15. Family: Samol

Samol wondered sometimes, as he felt his end drawing closer and closer, about old age.  
What could old age even mean to a being like him. He was older than anything, anything except that great big nothing out there. That nothing that had created him and would outlive him. The nothing which slowly killed him. But still, he was getting old, even for something like him.  
By mortal standards one might look to his graying hair and wrinkles, but that wasn’t aging for him. This physical form was just a projection. He could look like a young boy, or a great beast if he wanted. No, Samol looked old because he felt old. He felt it deep in his being; an ending approaching, a tiredness to his vibrant continent.  
As he aged, he found himself considering his descendants. There were many in an abstract sense, he was the continent and everything on it came from him or his sister, all the generations and generations of life. But it was only recently that he’d gotten a grandson in a much more immediate sense. His sons raising a boy of their own.  
Samol remembered when Samothes was born, he hadn’t anticipated the boy who had come into existence (fully formed, hammer in hand) to build and fight for the people on his world. He’d needed plenty of guidance of course, and saving from his own pig headedness, but he’d never really been dependant on Samol like a child. Samot came later, and that boy had needed plenty of help. But, while he looked like a boy - most of the time at least - Samol hadn’t felt like he was raising a child so much as taking in a wild animal, teaching it to hunt, and releasing it into the wild again.  
Still, they were his children, cared for and dear to him. And Maelgwyn, Samol’s grandson, well he was was something entirely new. Appearing in Samothes’ arms as a wailing babe. He behaved similarly to a mortal infant; helpless and curious, sweet and precocious. There was, of course, his habit of turning into a wolf and getting into more trouble than most human babies, but with Samot as his one father he came by both the wolfness and trouble making honestly.  
Samol had gone to visit Samot and Samothes as soon a he’d heard about the boy. When he arrived he’d taken the baby into his arms. The boy was tiny, toothless and hairless, eyes only just beginning to focus. Samol looked at him, a mixture of Samothes and Samot’s features smiling up at him, and fell in love instantly.  
“What are you calling him?” Samol asked.  
“Maelgwyn,” Samothes said, “Princely hound.”  
“Good, good,” Samol grinned, “ A fitting name. He’s very calm this boy, confident. That’ll be his domain, confidence.”  
Samot gave him a small smile, eyes filling with tears as he looked at him, “I wouldn’t have thought that.”  
“It’s hard to anticipate what a god’s emotions will form. But I think you’ll find he’s just what you need. A little more confidence. Some might even call it faith.”  
“Of course, father,” Samot didn’t sound convinced. Just the Maelgywn began to cry and Samot took him back, rocking him gently. Samol could see the motion soothing both of them. He was glad, he realized, if he had to leave this sons, that he could leave them with this, a child of their own to love and comfort them in his absence. And he was glad that he had gotten to meet him, to see and hold and love little Maelgwyn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter as @abbyisshabby and tumblr as @abby-not-too-shabby


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